


In the Reflection of Her Eyes

by goldenslumber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen, Single Father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 17:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12281526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenslumber/pseuds/goldenslumber
Summary: Angst drabble. "Jaime is finding it more and more difficult to sleep these days.."





	In the Reflection of Her Eyes

Jaime is finding it more and more difficult to sleep these days... what with the dreams of blood on his hands and the coiled anticipation inside his chest, which urges him to do more.It insists to him it is not over. It cannot be. It will never be _over_. There will be others – others like Aerys and Daenerys, and those damned Cleganes, dogs and dragons whom only know ripping things apart with their teeth, or men whom lust for more - Varys, Petyr, Cersei -  whose impatience drives them into bleak pits, that are no bleaker than the ones he must leap into to smother them.

And to, above all, _protect_.

Because that is what he swore.

Except he isn't.. he's already messed up. Jaime sees it in his dreams, splattered dark and red and unfortunate.

He is not what he was... what with the way his bones are stiff, beyond what they should be, and how he wakes to find that he's tossed and turned in the night and screamed out.

Jaime has woken up to no one, because the other side of his bed is cold and empty.

Then there is the slightest creak at the door: an inky black apparition fluttering across the floor, small and meek.

Another thing he has failed at... the king can sleep safe tonight, but apparently, Jaime's children will not.

Joanna stares timidly into the room, peering around the door, and her eyes are _hers._

It is salt in the wounds. Jaime pushes a fringe of sweat-damp hair from his face and he reaches out in dismay toward his daughter. “Who let you out of your bed?” Jaime murmurs, groggy and struggling. He moves from the bed, knees aching as he crosses the bed chamber and pulls Joanna into his arms.

Jo squirms. “Where's ma?”

_Lost,_ he thinks, capturing a small shoulder and squeezing it. “Gone.”

There is a pensive look in his daughter's eyes. _Her_ _eyes_. Jaime can't stand the look, because he thinks only that Jo has come at the call of his screaming that broke against the stone walls and reached the nursery, and he wonders where the nursemaid is.. and decides he does not care. His bed is too large for one.. and too cold for sleep.. and he scoops up the three year old, and presses his face into the hot skin of Jo's neck. “Lay with father,” he whispers, snuggling the child, and he wonders if toddlers can hear regret that turns a voice sour. “Remind me why I've done this..” _and show me why I've failed, be the reason I know it's wrong..._

He is sure, that if he could forget all those oaths, if he could let go of that ever distant bitter memory of not stopping Ser Gregor when he murdered Rhaegar's children, of that wretched Kingslayer reputation.. if he could let go true regrets, that he would find some sort of sick satisfaction and victory in all he's done..

But he sees Brienne in Joanna and he remembers Jo's voice, repeating in puzzlement, _Kingslayer,_ after a stray knight called him it - bold as he please. There are ghosts in Casterly Rock; Tywin, Tyrion, and Cersei – Cersei, whom Jaime once loved – and there is Joffrey and Tommen,  impossibly, as they'd never been to Casterly Rock when they lived. All of them are there, reminding him that he is all that is left of the Lannisters. A cripple, a widow, a man that has nothing to give - only memories and nightmares: Brienne screaming for him. The sight of the dragons and the wights and the long night. War and famine, and an infant he struggled to keep alive. An infant that has grown, who becomes more and more her mother, who loves knightly tales of honor and gazing at the sword daddy keeps mounted on the wall, named Oathkeeper.

_Oathkeeper_. _His lady. Sapphires. His wench._

Jaime draws Joanna close to his chest as they sink together into the tangles of blankets and sheets. He remembers flashes of other times that had happened with someone different, someone who didn't wrap a fist in his hair and suck absently on her thumb. And for the first, in years, somehow, he does not feel a jarring sadness, like he always does, but only just the dullest pang of regret and what sweeps in its place is a not so crippling ache of loneliness.

There is no one. They have all left him here, in Casterly Rock, _his place_.

All that is left is there, wrapped in his arms: safe.

So he gives into his despair, remembers her, her face, her eyes, and buries his face in Jo's hair, hoping it will obscure any tears that manage to fall.


End file.
